The Task of Waiting
by Tia Ordona 23
Summary: Parental! RoyEd. Small things always seemed to grab Roy Mustang's attention, whether it be a button opened or a hair out of place. But when Major Edward Elric is kidnapped, he finds himself untangling a more complex web than he had ever bargained for.


It's been a tough journey, but finally, with great pride, I can bring you The Task of Waiting to your screens

It's been a tough journey, but finally, with great pride, I can bring you _The Task of Waiting_ to your screens.

This story started out as a oneshot, way back in January, but the ideas kept growing and growing and so for seven months, I wrote this piece. There were times when I thought I would give up, but thank God, I never did. XD And now all I have to do is edit. I'm so proud of it, even though I think some spots were weak. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Yes, it's finished, so expect to see an end, also.

There is some language in here, blood, and violence. But that's what we like, no? XD

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.**

--

He scowled in exasperation at the figure in the mirror, and the reflection scowled back, shifting uncomfortably as he himself did the same in the real world. When he clacked the heels of his shining black boots together, the figure in the alternate realm immediately mimicked him, almost mockingly. And when the figure, trapped in the twisted depths of the mirror, stood straight and tall in a perfect military position, he also rose to his full five foot two, locking eyes with his right-handed double. It was annoying, of course, to stare and dwell on his self image, but self-consciousness was a demon, and it was eating him alive, devouring him in a single bite. God, he never felt so aware of his own body. It was _embarrassing. _

He quickly refreshed his mind the excuse that he was garbed differently that he usually was. Blue and gold were two perfectly regal, contrasting colors, symbolizing pride and royalty. But they didn't seem to suit him too well. The sight of the official, military jacket made him long for the familiar red cloak that draped comfortably over his shoulders. The long, navy pants to go with the jacket were hemmed neatly at his ankle-oh, how he would remember _that_ occasion. His face had been on fire during the whole event, much to the amusement of Lieutenants Havoc and Breda. His black boots were over-polished and at least two sizes too big. Cloth scraps were stuffed in the toe, but the huge size of the shoes made him clumsy, always tripping over his feet. His hair was lacking the usual braid in it, replaced with a thin ponytail of blonde, silky locks. His whole body was scrubbed clean, and he felt overly-hygienic, compared to his usual bath routine, which was limited.

His great golden eyes were glowering and annoyed as he applied the last stripe to his uniform. He didn't care about his ran as his rank as a major, so why should he attend this damn festival…?

A knock sounded from his door, and he growled as he turned away from the reflection he was fixating on and lazily drifted to the door to answer it. As he walked, he felt the clonking of his boots, practically deafening, like gunshots reverberating of his eardrums. Cursing slightly as he stumbled over the enormous toe, he shuffled cautiously to the door. With a clean, white-gloved hand, he gripped and twisted the doorknob.

Colonel Roy Mustang was a man that could blend in easily in military garb. He was tall and handsome, with sparking onyx eyes and neatly-combed, jet black hair, which never looked unkempt. His uniform was perfectly tidy and well-maintained. However, his calm demeanor clashed magnificently with Edward's self-consciousness. He stood straight and tall, but radiated ease and relaxation. A small smirk was pulling and tugging his thin lips. Mustang reminded him of the small posters, plastered on the walls of every barn in Risembool. He was only seven or eight years old, but he could read and follow the big bubble letters perfectly: HELP OUR TROOPS IN ISHBAL. He remembered when he could see straight rows of unshaven, bloodied soldiers, and they marched slowly, their heads hung low and their faces sullen and grim. He sometimes wondered if Mustang was in the groups, wounded and starving and ashamed, walking in a snail's death march.

But, looking at Mustang as he stood proudly in his doorway, he knew the colonel could never look so defeated, so broken. The man had poise and confidence, his smirk dashing, now leaning casually against the doorframe. He gritted his teeth rather impatiently, waiting for the older man's jeering taunts and teases. And sure enough, they came.

"Well, Edward. You look happy this morning. Like a smiling little kid," the young colonel retorted quite sarcastically.

Ed felt a ton of curse words rise up into his chest like a spurting fountain, but he kept all of them in, corking his bottled-up aggravation. He let a small grumble of, "Don't start with me," escape the barely parted middle of his lips. Mustang raised a curious eyebrow.

"What was that you said just now, Fullmetal?" Mustang inquired, registering the use of Ed's military assigned code name. But Ed ignored him, substituting a come back with picking an imaginary piece of lint off of his royal blue uniform. He wasn't looking at Mustang, but he could feel the scorch of the man's gloating stare. He knew Mustang could catch the tail end of his words, but he didn't care. He gave Mustang a few less-than-respectful words almost daily. It was a habit.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye has asked me to inform you that you are expected to be in the lobby within five minutes. There, we will all depart for the ceremonial grounds and it will begin, "Mustang explained in a slightly pinched tone. His expression soon turned from playful to serious, almost pleading. "And please, Fullmetal. Please try to act your age, and don't embarrass yourself in front of others." Then he turned stern. "Remember, I recommended you for the state alchemy exam."

Ed felt a truly evil smile pull on the corners of his lips as he heard the begging in Mustang's voice. "Well, that's all the more reason to behave myself." A sense of power surged through his veins, sparking like electricity. He felt the burn of Mustang's scorn for another half of a second, before the colonel exited the room, and Ed was left by himself.

As much as he hatred to admit it, Mustang did have a point. If he acted like an ass at this ceremony, his State Alchemist license would be in jeopardy. He would have several people within the inner circle of the military, watching him.

And in his current situation, he just couldn't have that.

His fun revoked, Ed took one last look at his surrealism-world double, before stepping through the wooden doorway and into the long, narrow hallway.

--

Ed rolled his eyes in irritation, accidentally bumping into Mustang, who was ahead of him in line. The colonel shot a glance at his young subordinate, and then, for some reason, an odd expression swallowed his features. He turned completely around to face Ed.

"What the hell are you doing?" hissed the young alchemist through gritted teeth as the older man reached for the boy's coat. Mustang gently took a golden button that was fastened on Ed's military jacket, fingered it with the tip of his spark glove, as if shining it tenderly, and then slid it into the corresponding button hold. Ed gave him the most confused look he could muster, widening his eyes and tensing his lips, his mere facial expression demanding an answer in a way that so genuinely fit his character.

"_That_ was bothering me," Mustang clarified simply with a smirk. "How could you have possibly overlooked that?"

"Weird old man," Ed muttered as Mustang wheeled back around to blend into the crowd.

Not a few seconds later, Ed again felt the overwhelming urge to fidget. He knew he was near the front of the line during the greater part of the Fuhrer's speech, and that made him anxious. Even as a young child, he could never keep still. He remembered Aunt Pinako had to scream at him to hold still, and even then his body would betray him and he's start bouncing up and down unconsciously. Then Pinako would wheel in the threat of punishment. He sighed thoughtfully and somewhat wistfully. He, as a child, was the very antithesis of his brother, Alphonse…

An elbow jammed into his ribs and a fresh jerk of pain reeled out of the pool of his thoughts. "Snap out of it, Fullmetal!" Mustang barked in a whisper. Ed gave him a hard but glazed over look, and Mustang turned again. Ed extended his neck so he could see past the colonel. It dawned on him like the rising suns of Risembool that he was very near to the front. If he, for some odd reason, decided to fidget, everybody would see. Damn it! He scowled and quickly averted his expression so it was emotionless, like the shade of the little gray pebbles that lined the country road to his old house. The military encouraged the act of holding in emotions. His mother once told him never to bottle up his feelings, but he always had. That part of the job was easy.

The line of men moved in a pattern similar to waves in the sea. The men at the very front started to travel, and those in the back were ebbed into the flow and pushed along at a brisk, uniform pace. Ed was in the front, so it didn't take long for the great current to grasp him. He marched perfectly straight and tall and even, following the example of Mustang. The Flame Alchemist could be an annoying playboy, but he did come in hand for tips on kissing ass. Sometimes Ed could hardly count the debt he had to repay to Mustang for guidance. But he rarely thought of his debts…except for one. One ridiculously large, inevitable debt.

Ed was all too aware that he was in front of hundreds of people, and the soldiers were now filling into neat lines, just like they did in rehearsal, over and over again. Ed's eyes were at the back of the crowd, and he was carefully scanning the rows of curious civilians, their bodies bundled tightly in coats to fight the dropping temperature. Ed craned his neck slightly, almost breaking his perfect form. But luckily he spotted his target right before he did: a seven foot tall suit of armor, tall and menacing.

It stood straight, towering high above all the heads of curious spectators. But perhaps the strangest quality of the armor was that it was moving by _itself_ shifting anxiously from foot to foot, producing a small clinking sound. Somehow, it looked…alive. Two expressive glimmers of red, two soulful orbs, floated lazily where the armor's eyes were. When the red spheres fell upon Edward, the armor lifted a huge, black gloved hand in a friendly way. Ed jerked his chin, barely a centimeter, but armor got the message and lowered its giant hand. People were already gaping, wide-eyed, at him.

Fuhrer King Bradley was the second edition of the cliché military personnel. He was a middle-aged man, with short, dark hair that was perfectly groomed, and his skin was a hearty color of olive, evenly tanned. He wore a black eye patch, making him look genuinely tough and brave. When he spoke, he was quite a gentleman, civilized and polite. He was a good leader to Amestris, seemingly willing to negotiate and compromise. But those working under him were aware of his terrifying lust of violence, his passion for war, and odd love of destruction. Ed noticed Mustang's dark eyes narrow as the Fuhrer stepped on to the podium. Ed immediately interpreted the odd look as longing. He knew, for a fact, that Mustang wanted to be the one stepping on to the podium. Mustang wanted to speak about these events. Mustang wanted to steer the country away from war.

Mustang wanted to be the Fuhrer.

--

When the endless, droning speech was over, Ed's legs _ached_. His back hurt. His arms were stiff from hanging at his sides. He probably had stood on that _damn _stage for hours, his boredom accompanied by the Fuhrer's accompanied babbling that all was well, oh yes; nobody was pushing any boundaries, no sir, especially not Drachma. What a load. Of course the military was having problems with Drachma. They always have. They always will.

_Lies. _They were clear in his head, like a photograph. Hell, he was just lied to now! He remembered when his own mother would lie…she said Dad would come back…but he never did… It was alarming, what someone could tell another and what could be really happening…

Realizing he was flashbacking, Ed reeled his mind to the present as the line of men tensed in a way that spread like a quick ripple of motion. Nobody could really see the soldiers stiffen, prepared for action; rather, it was a vibe felt in the air, falling from soldier to soldier like dominoes. The Fuhrer turned to face his hand-picked ensemble, and each man saluted, their heels clacking together, and their shoulders squared and stiff. Then, the soldiers majestically marched into the pit of the crowed. Ed could hear the murmurs of civilians, whispering excitably.

"Look! It's the Fullmetal Alchemist!"

"The Hero of the People!"

And Ed stood dumbly, aware of their recognition of him and his flattering, civilian-given nickname. He knew full well he was a prodigy, entering the military as a state alchemist at the age of twelve. He knew that when the children went to bed, parents told them about him, and what a big difference he could make, even if he was just a child. He knew that he was a hero to some.

But all that didn't matter.

What really mattered was the enormous suit of armor that was running gleefully, charismatically, toward him. It stopped when it reached Edward, right in front of the shorter blonde. And then, it began to talk.

"Brother! What a relief! Fuhrer King Bradley said that we weren't going to Drachma!" Surprisingly, the voice in the ominous suit of armor sounded like that of a young boy. It was soft and a little high, as if puberty had not hit him yet. The armor continued to blather on, the little pupils glittering. "I was worried about…"

"And you really believe him?" asked Edward, forcing his gaze to avert downward. "Look, Al. You know Bradley covers up any little stain in the military's history. Remember lab 5?"

The armor seemed to lose some of its bubbly quality, deflating slightly. "Yeah…I'm sorry, brother. You said the tension was dying down, and I…must have gotten confused."

The sixteen-year-old major's expression softened considerably as he met the soulful eyes of his younger brother, Alphonse Elric. "Sorry. You were right; the tension over there is dying down." Alphonse brightened up considerably, but the aura floating about him still felt confused.

"Why are you so snappy?" Alphonse asked lightly, placing a hand on the small of his brother's back and applying a slight amount of pressure. Ed walked forward, immediately obeying the force. Al, who knew his brother _so _well, directed his elder sibling to the refreshments table. Ed hesitantly picked up a sugar cookie, one spread thickly with cream icing and dotted with bright, happy-colored sprinkles.

"It's just…" he began, before averting his gaze and taking a bite of the freshly-baked, aromatic sweet he held. "It's just…" His eyes flickered, and he found Mustang, chuckling and laughing with Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, the blonde-haired, no-nonsense gunwoman. He sighed and shoved another bite of cookie into his mouth. Al made an impatient noise for him to continue.

"It's just…the military is so powerful. They have the total control over everything, even the past. Al, they're denying the tension. They're saying that it _never happened._ And I know that it was just border control, but how long would it take before whole wars…mass murders…great tragedies…when they never happen?" Ed felt a bitter smile carve into his face and a ghostly chill creep down his spine, paralyzing his body. He looked back over at the colonel, only to find that the older man wasn't in sight. "Sometimes I think that Mustang will open up some giant gate when he becomes Fuhrer. I don't think he's one to lie like that." Alphonse shivered, his armor clacking slightly. Ed shrugged. "So all we can do is help."

And he shoved the rest of his cookie in his mouth.

"Did I hear my name?" questioned a familiarly rich, male voice. Ed violently jumped, nearly spraying out half of his cookie. Alphonse forgot the heavy atmosphere, and burst into a violent fit of laughter, his armor trembling haphazardly. Ed wheeled around to face a smirking Mustang. He gasped, small, pink stains slowly rising up the fleshiest areas of his cheeks.

"Damn it, Mustang!" Ed shouted to express his alarm. Mustang chuckled and shrugged coyly. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"I thought I heard my name being used. With you, I can't afford that," Mustang explained in a mock grave voice. The older man then turned to Al. "And how are you, Alphonse?"

"Very well, thank you, sir," Al responded, bowing politely. Ed couldn't suppress a small smile. Al was the opposite of the fierce body he was in.

Mustang nodded and glanced again at Ed's face, and for some reason, the colonel's brow furrowed. Wordlessly he grabbed the top off the neat stack of napkins upon the table. He carefully brought the thin cotton to Ed's face. Ed's eyes were two gold doubloons as Mustang roughly wiped the younger alchemist's mouth, and then tossed the used napkins back onto the table.

"You had icing all over your face, Fullmetal," Mustang nonchalantly explained to the shocked expression he received as a reaction. The newly-restored tension was broken by a small chuckle from Al. Finally, Ed brought his face, which was contorted to resemble that of a fish without water, back to a normal, pouting glare.

"Weird-ass pedophile," he muttered under his breath, low enough so Mustang couldn't hear his angry words. However, his attempt was rendered useless when Mustang wheeled around suddenly, his eyes like two smoldering coals.

Al stopped laughing and let out a small gasp as Mustang darted a few steps forward, his movements quick and staccato. Ed instinctively raised his right arm as a helpless self-defense measure. But Al had already stepped in the path of Ed's arm, and it resulted in a loud collision.

Ed's right glove tore on the huge shoulder spikes of the armor. Mustang jogged several steps backward as Al's helmet went crashing to the ground.

The suit of armor was hollow as an empty can.

But the two young men took no notice at this extraordinary situation. In fact, they seemed rather hasty at getting the helmet securely back on the hollow armor's shoulders. Ed quickly picked up the head of the suit, looking frantically left and right.

"Just put it back on!" Mustang hissed, trying to use his body to partition Al from the eyes of the thankfully diminishing crowd. Al's arms were flapping widely, as if his head would be found in midair. For some reason, Ed had a weird flashback of his brother, years ago, the time when his eyes were blue and hair was caramel, and he was chasing a steely-gray winged sparrow, the country sun at the peak of the sky and blossoming in its full heat…

"Ed! We're going to be seen!" yelled Al's voice from his jig-dancing torso. As quickly as he could but not wanting the danger of the crowd's attention, Ed skidded to look into the armor. His eyes paused as he glanced over a small, intricate design drawn on the inside, in bloody shades of crimson red. Then he shoved the helmet back on lowering himself from his toes and sighed from relief.

Already, Mustang turned to face Ed and lectured in a mutter, loud enough so only the three of them could hear. "Knock it off, Fullmetal! You know that if anyone sees Al, he'll be hauled off to a lab as a sample." He glanced at Ed's right hand. The perfect little gloved was now tattered and ripped. Sighing, he slid his right hand out of the loose-fitting glove, and rotated his hand from side to side, checking for any signs of injury.

But there wasn't a hand under the glove.

In its place was a big piece of metal. It certainly had the same shape as a human hand, with five working fingers and a rail-thin wrist. But the metal had the same chill, the same hardness, the same feel as old scrap tin. Of course, he wouldn't tell his mechanic that. She would freak.

The automail limbs on his body swallowed up the vacancy of his right arm and left leg. The thought of the accident that cost him his limbs made him sick to his stomach. It was gruesome. It kept him up at night. The terrifying flashbacks haunted him.

He didn't want to think about it.

Ed carefully slid his hand on his brother's arm, trying his best to avoid the loud clinking of metal on metal. "Listen, we should go," he told Al quietly. "I don't want us to attract too much attention." Al nodded once and started forward with a quick nod to Mustang. Ed began to follow him.

"Wait a second!" Mustang called to Ed's back. The young major spun around on the spot, expecting something drastic and terrorizing. However, he was met with Mustang's hand, flipping his tousled, honey-colored hair to the side. Ed sighed, anticipating an explanation but at the same time, dreading it.

Mustang shrugged coyly and responded, "You have to learn to actually check the mirror, kid. Otherwise, no girl will want to date you."

"SHUT UP!" Ed roared, too fed up to deal with another second of the torment he withstood until now. He lunged at the colonel, but stopped in midair when a sharp jerk on his neck knocked the air out of his windpipe. It took him another fraction of a second to realize that Al had grabbed the collar of his jacket. Wordlessly, Ed sighed and deflated, and Al released him, the air around him cold and hard, like an invisible glare. It reminded Ed of Risembool, back when they were boys. Whenever Ed and Al fought, Ed was always sent to the river to retrieve his smaller brother. And Al would get up, his grayish eyes narrow and resolute, and Ed would just beckon for him to follow. The anger would evaporate as Al trotted to keep up with him on their way back to the house.

The memories of Al in a human body were full of holes and faded, like an old film. The pictures were disjointed and distorted, and Al was a bright flash of light in the picture. His face was blurry to the point where Ed could barely trust his own perverse memories as a reference to his brother's old appearance. It was so sad…

"Brother? You coming?" asked Al softly, pausing to look at his brother. Ed noticed that some of the ice melted, and the air was warm and pleasant again.

Ed allowed a small, somewhat sad smile to grace his lips. "Yeah…yeah, I'm coming." And the two ambled back to the military dorm rooms.

As the scene unfolded, Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer glared suspiciously at the slowly-fading backs.

--

Laugh at you want at Roy's OCD (XD), but you won't be for long. Oh, trust me. You won't be. O.o

I appreciate reviews, nice, structured reviews. "lol nice" isn't exactly a good review, but if that's all you have time for…then I'll only cry for ten minutes. :D

Thank you for reading!


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